


Silly Love Songs

by starsandgutters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel-centric, Fluff, M/M, Schmoop, Songfic, VERY FLUFF SUCH SCHMOOP WOW, i guess?, in which my lyrics addiction rears its head, man it has been so long since I've tried one of these, more like "songs fic", music junkies unite, pre-season 10, season 9 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The third thing that happens ‒ and it happens the day after Dean leaves ‒ is this: Castiel hears a love song. He doesn't initially know that's what it is."</p><p>In which Castiel learns about humanity and music; or, the vital importance of songs. (Set in early season 9.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silly Love Songs

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came to be thanks to a conversation I had with [Margie](http://therapture.co.vu), where we got to talking about Castiel hearing love songs for the first time as a human, and how they would impact him so much more strongly than they ever could as an angel; because, well, angels just aren't wired for caring that way-- but humans, for better or worse, very much are.
> 
> Other than that, this is the result of three things: my eternal, unabashed love for song lyrics and my deep belief in the importance of music for humans; my utter fascination with the concept of Castiel experiencing human emotions for the first time; and the idea that love can knock you off their feet whether you're a teenager or a former celestial wavelength. It's one of the things that completely levels the differences between humans, and, well; I love that about love.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine, but thanks so much to [Yasmine](http://ethicalmadness.tumblr.com) for her amazing (as always) support.

**i.**

The first thing that happens is that Dean tells him: “You can’t stay”.

It feels like icy water being injected directly into his veins. Somehow it hurts more than falling did; it hurts more than it _should._ He has been staying with the Winchesters in their bunker for less than a day, but already it is starting to feel more like home than Heaven ever did. Castiel has no right to feel this way, he knows that.

He knows, but everything is still so sharp and new and colorful and terrifying, and _please_ , couldn’t he stay at least one night? After the cold and the hunger and dirt, to be safe and warm, to be among friends, to be _known‒_ is almost enough to bring him to tears of gratitude. He wants ‒ _needs_ ‒ time to get accustomed to his clumsy human body, to the different pangs and itches of it, to the violent assault of all his senses. But then Dean ‒ _warmth, leather, gunpowder, green eyes, tired lines_ ‒ Dean tells him to leave.

Well, fine. Castiel does not need to be sheltered. He will not endanger the Winchesters, especially not when they just saved his life. He used to be mighty power and righteous sword, fearsome heavenly vengeance; he struck down enemies and watched kingdoms fall for _centuries_ before he met these boys. He does not need their help. He does _not_ need Dean’s help.

So Castiel swallows his protests and his pleas, holds his lips shut, gathers his meager belongings. He tells himself this does not hurt, not even in secret, not even a little.

One rule of humanity he has learned from the Winchesters is this: you take your pain and you bury it. Deep.

 

 

**ii.**

The second thing that happens: Dean comes to visit him unannounced.

(Another rule of humanity he should have learned from the Winchesters is that the pain you buried tends to come back and bite you where you’re still tender and raw.)

He’s attending to his usual tasks, serving a customer at the Gas’n’Sip till, when he hears the gruff voice he’d recognize anywhere, pitched low and vibrating with _something_ he can’t quite make out.

“I’ll have some beef jerky and a pack of menthols, please.”

Seeing Dean’s familiar shape lingering in front of the counter is like being struck in the stomach unexpectedly with an ice hammer, and all the breath gets knocked out of Castiel with such vehemence that he’s not entirely sure he didn’t quietly gasp. At the same time, however ‒ as if Castiel was splitting exactly around the core ‒ a completely different reaction occurs, one that has him blink and swallow, his stomach doing a weird little flip and heat rushing over him.

Their last meeting had been a whirlwind. Castiel had died and been brought back, struggling to recover from his encounter with the Reaper; afterwards, washing and eating had been priority, and he’d had very little time to actually spend with the boys before being told to go.

Which means, incidentally, that this‒ _this_ is the first good look he gets at Dean with his new human sight, and it is a strange and terrible thing.

Dean is tall, larger-than-life, and directly in his personal space. He’s also grinning, that amused wide grin of his that’s reserved for when he makes jokes, and it makes Castiel viscerally _angry_ that Dean would show up like this, smile plastered over his face, as if he hadn’t kicked Castiel out like a stray dog.

“What do you want,” he hears himself choke out before he can stop it, and he hadn’t meant to do this, hadn’t meant to show how upset he is with Dean, but it’s apparently too late for pretense.

All the while, even as resentment and hurt churn inside his stomach, he is unable to tear his eyes away, and he’s not sure _why_ that is.

But had Dean always been that tall? And his shoulders that wide?

“Gee, Cas, it’s nice to see you too.” _Dean_ looks irritated and hurt now, _of all the brazen things, really,_ and Castiel hates himself for the pang of guilt he feels. He doesn’t care, he tells himself. This is _nothing._ Just a business call‒ a call _he_ made, because this case is Dean and Sam’s usual job and ‒ speaking of which, where’s Sam? Did Dean come alone? Why? ‒ and Castiel doesn’t _care._ They can sort this out like professional adults. He doesn’t need to worry about Dean’s _feelings,_ or think about Dean at all.

Except that Dean is right there, unavoidable, undeniable as the sun in the sky, and Castiel can’t stop staring at his face. There are freckles there, which he _knows_ ‒ he damn well should know, he painted every single one himself, years ago‒ but they look as fascinating as if he had never seen them before.

“It’s _Steve_ now,” Castiel forces himself to say, “and… you‒ you surprised me.”

That is one way to put it, he supposes.

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” Dean replies, eyeing his nametag curiously, and for the love of God, _why_ is it so hard to look him in the eye? Perhaps it’s because Castiel can feel Dean staring at him relentlessly, taking in what he’s become, his human attire, his helplessness, all things which he had never really seen before.

It’s humiliating.

Castiel wishes he still had a smidgen of his power, wishes he could flare out his wings as he did once ‒ to fly far away from here or simply to make a statement, to remind Dean of what he used to be.

 _I was your powerful ally_ , he’d say; _I thought we were_ friends, _but you discarded me like I was_ _nothing._

But Castiel is a mere human now, so he can’t do any of that. Instead, he braces himself and meets Dean’s eyes, putting steel in his gaze.

“What did you expect?” he bites out, trying to keep his voice level and low. He moves to one side of the counter, away from possible customers, and Dean follows, a frown appearing on his forehead, even as his eyes remain fixed on Castiel; he doesn’t look away, just keeps studying him intently, almost softly, almost as if he’s drinking him in. It makes Castiel’s stomach do a weird somersault.

What the hell is happening?

The strange warmth from before is spreading low in Castiel’s belly, and it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. That’s not entirely right: it’s somewhat similar, he realizes with an internal jolt, to how he’d felt on that night with April. But surely that makes no sense? He and Dean aren’t even _touching._ It’s completely different, it has to be.

And yet, even with his limited human knowledge, there’s no mistaking this for anything else: this‒ this is desire. What Castiel feels right now, staring at Dean across a counter that feels as vast as an ocean, is _desire._

He feels his neck flush. This is… uncalled for. Can Dean tell? What if he can? Would he be angry? Embarrassed?

 _Not that I care,_ Castiel tries to remind himself, with a shade of pettiness that surprises him. Except of course he does care; but that is the least of his problems, truly, because it’s as if a blindfold has been slipped from over his eyes, and there is no putting it back. Suddenly, he sees _everything._

As an angel, he’d cherished Dean’s company. He had been aware that Dean possessed many physical qualities that humans generally considered attractive, but that didn’t matter. Many other humans were, after all, conventionally physically attractive. It was Dean’s _soul_ that defied convention in every possible way. Blinding, unfaltering, it remains to this day the most beautiful thing Castiel has ever seen. It seems only logical that now that he can’t see it any longer, its enthralling light hidden behind Dean’s eyes and face, Castiel shouldn’t find anything else to behold in him. But that estimate, it turns out, is tragically wrong.

Because Dean, Dean has eyes that crinkle when he smiles, and though Castiel never really stopped to consider it, it suddenly seems very important. Dean also has lips that are very pink and slightly chapped, and Castiel’s fingers are itching to touch.

What would it be like, he wonders suddenly, to kiss Dean the way April had kissed him? To do even more? The thought rushes him from out of nowhere, and fills him with a feverish intensity that catches him off guard; it feels like he’s breaking some sort of law just by considering these ideas, but he suddenly can’t seem to stop, his now-human hands feeling awkward and sweaty.

Somehow, impossibly, he muddles through; they talk about the case, and discuss the merits of retail work. The internal shaking subsides, and Castiel can feel himself returning on steady ground and almost breathes a sigh of relief.

Then Dean asks him to come with.

The pace of Castiel’s heart stutters to an uneven stop, a thousand responses crowding his tongue, all of them amounting to the same negative answer.

 _You sent me away_ , he wants to say. _You didn’t need me. You didn’t_ want _me._ He doesn’t know why this matters, Dean wanting him, but it does.

 _I can’t come with you_ , he wants to say, _because I’m powerless. I’m useless. I’m less than a human soldier._

 _I don’t want to come,_ he tastes bitterly on his tongue, _because we’ll be together and you will smile at me, and you have a dangerous smile._

None of those replies come out. When has he ever been able to say no to Dean?

So they go. After that, things just _happen,_ in the way that things seem to happen around him and the boys. They visit the crime scene, Castiel’s date is a bust, and the Rit Zien tries to kill him, before Dean charges in and distracts him long enough that Castiel can dispatch him (what was Dean even doing still out there?). Dean fixes his wrist, and then they drive back to his motel. The drive takes much longer than it should, with Dean taking all possible detours, as if he never wanted to get there. Castiel doesn’t mind. Dean drives and Castiel nurses his splint, and neither of them talks.

Castiel doesn’t once stop wondering what Dean’s mouth tastes like.

 

 

**iii.**

The third thing that happens ‒ and it happens the day after Dean leaves ‒ is this: Castiel hears a love song.

He doesn’t initially know that’s what it is.

He’s wiping down the coffee machine one-armed, his wrist tender and aching still, and pointedly not thinking about _it_ , whatever it was. Dean just surprised him, that’s all. It’s nothing he can’t handle. He can live with being attracted to Dean: he knows that humans lust easily, and Dean is pleasant enough ( _extremely_ pleasant) to look at. As long as he doesn’t speak of it, it doesn’t have to be a problem. It isn’t as if Dean is _here_ for him to lust after, anyway, so Castiel refuses to feel bad about it. It’s out of his control.

The radio is playing Nora’s station of choice, and Castiel is content to let the forgettable melodies wash over him. He somewhat favors classical music, and doesn’t find much of interest in this kind of harmony; until, suddenly, a combination of drawled words makes him pay attention almost against his will.

_Driving in your car, I never never want to go home  
because I haven’t got one anymore._

The feeling sounds so similar to how Castiel had felt last night, that it makes him pause. The Impala had felt familiar and safe in a way that nothing in this new human life does, and a small, irrational part of him had hoped Dean would never stop driving, never drop him off and force him to admit the humiliating truth that he doesn’t even have a place to stay, that he sleeps in the back of the store like a vagrant.

Then again, Castiel is probably reading into things. How could a song ‒ a song similar to a hundred thousand others ‒ actually talk about his life? His is not exactly a commonplace existence. It must be a fluke, and he holds an ear out to confirm this.

 _Driving in your car, oh please don’t drop me home_  
_because it’s not my home, it’s_ their _home_  
_and I’m welcome no more._

Castiel stops dead in his tracks, unsure if he’s heard right. As determined as he is to believe that he’s imagining things ‒ he’s clearly unsteady on his metaphorical human feet, as the feelings of the other day prove ‒ the sentiment just rings a little too true to ignore. He doesn’t know when Heaven stopped feeling like home; somewhere down the line, from the Apocalypse to the Fall, his garrison had been replaced in his heart by two boys, an old drunk, and all the humans who’d fought so fiercely for what was right. But what Castiel _does_ know is that even if he wanted to go back to Heaven, he’d never be able to. His Grace is destroyed forever; he’s not an angel anymore. And the other angels… well, he doesn’t need to ask how they feel about him. Hael and the Rit Zien, Ephraim, had been indication enough. They blame him, they resent him, and Castiel can’t fault them for it. He _did_ lead them to this, as bitter as that truth is. It’s painful to contemplate, and he decides to focus on the rest of the song instead; he’s missed quite a few lines, but the ones that follow strike him just the same.

_…and in the darkened underpass,_  
_I thought “oh God, my chance has come at last”_  
_but then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn’t ask._

Castiel freezes. This is impossible. Absolutely and utterly _impossible._ This song was probably written years ago, in a far-away place, by people he’s never met. There is no way on earth that whoever wrote it could know about the quiet tension that had settled over the Impala the longer Castiel and Dean drove; how Castiel had taken to studying Dean’s profile in the dim glow of streetlights, looking away quickly to avoid being noticed, a strange tremor shaking inside his chest.

Most of all, no one could know how when they’d taken an underpass on the way back to the Gas’n’sip, Dean had leaned over, and all breath and reason had been punched out of Castiel, and for a moment, a single, short, infinite moment of insanity, he’d been _sure_ Dean would kiss him, and his whole body had become a coiled-tight spring of _yes Dean yes please yes_.

But the moment had passed, and Dean was only reaching over to grab the box of paper tissues in the side door compartment, and Castiel was a fool, and too afraid to ask what it all meant.

Castiel swallows now, jarred and shaken. He hadn’t meant to relive that moment. In fact he’d hoped to forget about it forever. That a stranger should sing about it in a song he’s never heard before, is… unsettling. Castiel has completely stopped cleaning the coffee machine without realizing it, listening with near-breathless attention for the end of the song; and that is when he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it _must_ be about him: there is simply no other explanation.

_To die by your side‒ well, the pleasure‒ the privilege is mine._

How many times has Castiel felt this way? How many times has he been ready to die beside Dean‒ _has_ died for him? Even now, even with all the misunderstanding and hurt between them weighing heavy on their friendship, Castiel can think of no other way he’d rather end his life: fighting the good fight by Dean’s side. It is no less true now that he is human and fragile, Castiel knows this with certainty: he’d die beside Dean, happily.

It is perhaps lucky that Nora comes in right at that moment, for Castiel is getting more unsteady by the second. It must show, but because Nora is a wonderful and kind woman, she makes no mention of it, nor of the way Castiel’s voice cracks hoarsely when he calls out to her.

“Nora. What _is_ this song? Who is singing it?”

“Um, it’s… The Smiths? _There Is A Light That Never Goes Out?_ ” she calls back from where she’s arranging cigarettes on the shelves, in a tone that implies he should know the song. Then she turns around and does a double-take.

“Steve, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right?” she looks at him intently, concern soft on her face.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, because it’s what he always tells her.

Nora shakes her head with a small smile. “You’d think you’d never heard a love song before.”

This time it’s Castiel’s turn to double-take. “A _love_ song? That’s‒ that was a love song?”

“Well, yes? Pretty famous one, too.” Nora shrugs, looking at him in confusion, head cocked to one side.

Castiel’s head is reeling, a string of _no no no_ _can’t be can’t be can’t be_ running through his mind.

“But… but it didn’t talk about love. The man who was singing‒ he never spoke about love, or‒ or feelings. There was no mention of kissing, embracing, declarations, or… or any of the things associated with romantic love.” Castiel knows he probably sounds like an alien to Nora, but she must be used to it by now, and he has to explain‒ has to understand.

Nora pauses in the midst of arranging birthday cards on the rack. “Well, no, but that doesn’t matter. Not all love songs are explicit. You can tell someone’s in love by the way they speak, the way they think of someone. The feeling is there, even if you don’t put the name to it. I mean…” she brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, “…you can just _tell_ , that’s all. Haven’t you ever been in love?”

Castiel is beginning to think maybe he has.

His throat paper dry, he mumbles an excuse and ducks out into the bathroom, where the mirror returns his panicked face.

This cannot be happening. It’s impossible. Dean’s his _friend_. Neither of them have ever said anything about love. Castiel has no interest in the concept. Does he? Attraction is one thing, and something he can understand and handle, as awkward as it is; but Nora has to be wrong, because if the song was truly about being in love, and if the song describes what Castiel feels‒

It crashes down on him like a mountain ravine, bringing him down with it, walls crumbling in front of his eyes.

_To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die._

It has nothing to do with lust, Castiel can see that now. It was never about that. Long before he noticed Dean’s broad shoulders and easy smiles, long before he ever started wanting the warmth of his body and the kisses of his mouth, Castiel wanted _Dean‒_ his company, his understanding, his affection, his friendship. He craved all of them with an intensity that both surprised and confused him.

He thinks he’s beginning to understand now. Castiel might be in love with Dean, and it’s the most terrifying thing that has ever befallen him. Angels aren’t supposed to love, and he’d been blind enough to think it could never happen to him.

Castiel needs to look into this, to understand it better; there’s still a chance he’s overthinking things, and that Nora’s theory is wrong after all‒ even though he readily acknowledges her superior experience in all things human.

Most of all, he thinks fervently, he needs Dean to never, _ever_ find out.

 

 

**iv.**

The next thing that happens is a consequence of that revelation, really; and it is that Castiel uses his employee discount to buy a notebook, a pen, and a CD that proclaims in loud, garish pink letters ‘TOP 40 LOVE SONGS FOR THE AGES’.

He’s renting a motel room by now, and Nora has been kind enough to give him her portable CD player (apparently, nobody uses them anymore).

So Castiel works, he earns his rent, and then goes back to his room and starts his studies.

He has a method, of course, because this would all be pointless otherwise. He inscribes the song title at the top of each page in neat capital lettering, and then splits the page evenly down the middle: words that apply to him, and words that don’t.

So far, he has noted with dismay, the statistics are hugely in favour of the former.

 _If I should stay,_ recites one song, _I would only be in your way._ It’s true, Castiel supposes. He’s like a beacon, with every enraged angel coming for him with a vengeance. Sam and Dean don’t need that kind of danger thrust upon them, not with Sam having almost died. _So I’ll go, but I know I will think of you every step of the way._

Castiel puts another tick in the left column: true. Almost all of the song has been placed into the left column, actually, especially the bit that says _I hope life treats you kind_ , and _I wish you joy and happiness_ , which had surprised him a little. He thought he was still angry with Dean, but it has faded into a dull background hurt. Dean had come to see him after all, and tiredness and worry had been lining his face. If anyone deserves to be happy, Castiel knows it is Dean.

This song also prominently features the word ‘love’, which is an uncomfortably explicit reminder. He flicks on to the next page, reviewing his notes.

_I didn’t know love, not even close._  
_This is more beautiful and frightening than I’ve ever known._  
_It’s making me weak, making me strong,_  
_it’s making me afraid that I’m gonna wake up and find you gone._

Castiel underlines the words distractedly. Those are all in the left column too. He’d never really stopped to consider human feelings, not until Dean ‒ stubborn, heart-on-his-sleeve Dean ‒ had persuaded him to rebel against his orders. And that _is_ frightening, no less now than it had been before.

He wishes, more than ever, that Anna was still alive. He longs to talk to _someone_ about this, and he knows Anna would have understood‒ Anna who had been, in a way, so much braver than him, Anna who had known what she wanted, Anna who had fallen because she loved humans so much. He thinks she could have helped him make sense of this. But it’s more than that. Castiel thinks that he might actually have _enjoyed_ telling her about his new discovery, because the song is right about this too: as terrifying as the feeling is, it also makes him strangely happy in a way he hesitates to consider. It’s like having a tiny sun glowing inside him at all times, sometimes warming him up from the inside and sometimes burning with a fierce heat that scares him.

He wonders if Anna had loved Dean. He wonders if it would make him jealous, if she had. He thinks about asking her what it felt like to have her body pressed against Dean’s, if he had been hungry or gentle, if it had been worth falling just for that moment.

Most of all, he misses his sister.

The acute loneliness that follows that thought is made even worse when he looks at the next few words scribbled down in his handwriting‒

_In the past I’d settled for a touch,_  
_I’d tell myself it was enough._  
_I was lying, lying, lying._

A memory flashes by his eyes of standing on a deserted highway, back when he could still wait all night on his feet without ever tiring, and of Dean’s hand on his shoulder. He remembers feeling wholly content in that moment. He wonders, now, how that could ever be sufficient. He thinks about the way Dean had embraced him in Purgatory, and wishes fervently he’d had it in himself to rise out of his self-loathing long enough to hug him back.

Wishing, however, is pointless, so he just skips the tracks on his CD player to get to the one he wants. This song is one he particularly likes, the strummed guitar notes weirdly soothing.

_It was written that I would love you_  
_from the moment I opened my eyes._  
_And the morning that I first saw you_  
_gave me life under calico skies._

Castiel thinks for a while, then moves the words into the right column. It doesn’t really count. He didn’t come into existence with any eyes, being a wavelength of energy. And the first time he saw Dean it was in Hell, where the concept of morning is meaningless.

(He knows he’s grasping at technicalities here, but he stubbornly refuses to give in completely.)

The next few lines however are harder to reason out.

_Always looking for ways to love you,  
never failing to fight at your side._

It actually makes his chest constrict painfully, thinking of whatever Dean and Sam might be facing. He should be there to help. This mess is of _his_ making, the angels falling to Earth. But Dean had refused his assistance, and though his intentions were good, it still stings.

Castiel feels useless, stuck here in Rexford serving customers when his friends and his brethren need him. He’s detached from everything, tucked away in a place where nobody knows who he really is. Castiel has always enjoyed being alone, but he was not prepared for this kind of loneliness. Dejectedly, he skips ahead to the next song, one he has listened to a dozen times already in his motel bed, when sleep evaded him. The lyrics he scribbled down are untidy and irregular, the pen shaky in his insomnia-tired hand.

_Till now, I always got by on my own;_  
_I never really cared until I met you._  
_But now it chills me to the bone._

Castiel remembers vividly a time when heat and cold meant nothing at all to him‒ with or without a vessel. Now, he sweats when he’s overwarm, and has spent too many nights to count with teeth chattering; it seems unfair to have to experience cold on the inside too. He wants to resent Dean for introducing him to the feeling, for making him weak in so many ways. He wants to rip the feeling of freezing emptiness out of his chest and shove it back at the man who put it there. He wants, quite possibly, for Dean to walk through the motel door right now and hold him till he feels warm and safe and _seen_ again.

_But the secret is still my own  
and my love for you is still unknown._

Castiel sighs. He’s tired of this pointless exercise, and it’s dark out anyway. No matter how many times he goes over his notes, there are always more words in the left column, all pointing to the same inexorable conclusion. In fact, he’s horrified to notice, with every read-through he keeps adding more, the songs feeling truer and truer, the words fitting tighter against his skin, as painful as a fresh tattoo.

He’s even more horrified by the way he doesn’t _mind_ the pain, welcoming it with an almost giddy fondness.

Castiel has seen quite a good selection of B-rated movies in his cramped motel room, and more than half of them have been about romance. He is able to recognize that he’s acting more or less like a teenaged human girl experiencing a crush, or her first love, and that he should feel embarrassed. He doesn’t, though, he truly doesn’t. Try as he might, he can find noting shameful in the feelings churning inside him at all times, no matter how hard television tries to paint them as silly and frivolous and somehow less worthy, due to being associated with girlishness or immaturity. Castiel just doesn’t _care._ He’s met some remarkable human girls and boys in his long, long existence, and there are much worse people to feel affinity for.

 _You’d think that people would have had enough of silly love songs_ , he hums to himself, remembering one of the songs on the CD, _but I look around and see it isn’t so._

When he slips into bed, he does so with the earphones of the CD player plugged into his ears, one of his favourite songs playing on repeat as he mentally sends a prayer to a Father he hasn’t had stalwart faith in for a very long time. The prayer is for his fallen brethren, for Sam and Dean, and lastly for himself, that they may all safely find their way. Then he concedes himself the luxury of one last prayer especially for Dean’s wellbeing. Never before has he understood so well the fragility of human beings, and Dean is so very human. Anything could kill him, at any time, and the thought punches a wave of nausea through Castiel. The focus he’d had on his praying slips away, so he closes his eyes and lets the song carry on the sentiment for him.

_If you should ever leave me, though life would still go on‒_  
_believe me, the world could show nothing to me;_  
_so what good would living do me?_

As he falls deeper and deeper into sleep, his fears subside, leaving a warm softness that makes him ache drowsily with the last rational thought in his tired mind. _God only knows what I’d be without you._

 

 

**v.**

One last thing happens, and it is perhaps this that finally tips the scales over in Castiel’s mind: Dean calls him.

It’s late at night, and Castiel’s back is sore from lifting crates at work (a new kind of alcohol came in stock, and the bottles for it are horrendously thick and heavy). He’d fallen asleep in front of a movie called _Dirty Dancing,_ then woken up to something called _Terminator 2_ , and turned off the TV in baffled distaste for both movies.

He knows he should just go to bed ‒ he’s dead tired, and there’s now a crick in his neck to accompany the ache in his back, courtesy of the crappy motel couch ‒ but he’s irritable and restless and can’t quite manage it.

The notebook where he’d been analysing love songs lies half-hidden on the bedside table, where he hasn’t touched it in more than a week. Putting it aside, however, has done him no favors: all the songs he’s listened to are now stuck in his brain, and they seem unlikely to ever leave or be replaced by new information. He wonders if it’s like this for all humans, the way they can’t let go of music.

Castiel tosses and turns in his bed, kicking the covers off, then drawing them around himself. His irritation, he is aware, is mostly directed at himself. Because he knows _exactly_ what he wants to do, and hates how weak it makes him feel, especially with the echo of countless love songs in the back of his mind.

 _Reaching for the phone, ‘cause I can’t fight it anymore_  
_and I wonder if I ever cross your mind;_ _for me it happens all the time._

Well, screw it, Castiel decides.

It isn’t unreasonable to be worried about Dean; not when they haven’t heard from each other in longer than ten days. Anything could have happened, _anything_ of the murderous or life-threatening variety. Castiel is just being a good friend, he tells himself, not believing his own lie for a second even as he grabs his cellphone from the bedside table.

Except that before he can even unlock it and start punching the number in, the phone starts ringing.

It’s Dean.

Castiel is suddenly as awake as humanly possible, his heart pounding at a reckless pace. He burns to pick up the call, but his thumb is ridiculously frozen over the green button. There are so many things he wants to say to Dean, and none that seem appropriate.

_I was worried about you._

_My room feels stuffy no matter how much I air it out._

_I always want to phone you but I second-guess myself almost all the time._

_Today, a man yelled at me for getting his coffee order wrong and I wanted to call him an assbutt, but Nora wouldn’t understand. You would have, though._

_Is it raining where you are now?_

_Are you alright?_

_Hearing your voice makes my chest feel like there’s not enough room for all my internal organs. It’s awful. I want to feel like that all the time._

_I miss you and Sam and the Impala and Kevin and the bunker, but mostly you._

Eventually, he swallows past the mess of sentences and takes the call. Once he hears the breathing on the other end, that silence that is everything but silence, the words come easy to him, as familiar as the trenchcoat he used to wear.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. How… how you doin’.”

Dean sounds tired, because Dean always does. Castiel suspects Dean is always a little tired, always a little angry, and it just makes him all the more beautifully human in Castiel’s eyes.

On this particular night, however, Dean also seems a little intoxicated.

“I’m all right. How are you, Dean?”

“Oh, you know. Same old. Nothing new, uh, under the sun. I jus‒ just wanted to see how you were doing.”

Yes, Dean is definitely inebriated, and while that in itself is by no means shocking, it’s unusual for him to call when he’s ‒ what’s the word ‒ ‘hammered’.

Castiel makes a noncommittal noise.

“Nothing much is happening, as you can imagine. I go to work. I’m… laying low, as you suggested.” The wave of discomfort that idea sends through him is familiar, but still crippling.

“Good, that’s‒ that’s good.” Dean sounds like he’s forcing together words he never meant to say, his pleasant tone as easy to see through as though he was right in front of Castiel. “…’s nice to know you’re doing okay for yourself. Y’know, all the way over there.”

It’s an odd phrasing, and Castiel frowns, even though something inside him recognizes the sentiment.

“I do seem to be ‘all the way over here’, yes.”

“Wish you fucking weren’t,” Dean mutters, and it takes Castiel entirely too many seconds to realize what he’s heard.

When he does, he’s amazed that anything could feel this good and hurt so much all at once.

“Dean…”

“Forget it. Sorry. Just… ramblin’on. I’m, uh, I’m a little juiced. Can you tell?”

Castiel can tell. He should reassure Dean that it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter‒ but it _does,_ it does matter, he’s not sure why. Then realization hits him like a solid slap to the face, and he scrambles to reach the notebook on his nightstand, frantically flipping pages till he finds the words.

 _And I wonder if I ever cross your mind;_ _for me it happens all the time._  
_It’s a quarter after one, I’m a little drunk_ _and I need you now._  
_Said I wouldn’t call, but I lost all control._

It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a coincidence, obviously, and Castiel is sure that _all_ humans feel like _all_ love songs apply to them all the time. But Castiel is also done lying to himself; he’s done pretending like just because it’s foolish, sentimental drivel, it is not of import. He doesn’t _care._

He _wants_ to be sentimental and foolish. He wants to believe the song is about him; about them. He wants to talk to Dean, because he loves Dean, and even thinking about it makes him giddy and restless with fever.

Perhaps accepting this is all just part of being human.

“Cas? You there?”

“I’m here, Dean. It’s okay. I’m glad you called.” The honesty feels refreshing rolling off his tongue, so he goes with it some more. “I was worried about you.”

“You‒ what? Why? I mean… don’t be. I’m good. Sammy’s good. Just… shit. I shouldn’t have called, I’m sorry. It’s late, isn’t it? Like, douchey levels of late.”

Castiel checks the clock on the wall in front of him. It really is late, and he really should sleep, but he really doesn’t care.

_It’s a quarter after one, I’m all alone and I need you now._

“Dean. It’s okay. I promise.” It’s more than okay. It’s also far from perfect, but hell, Castiel will take it.

There’s a pause where neither of them speaks. The silence feels surprisingly comfortable. Dean sighs once, long and drawn-out.

“Tell me about your last hunt,” Castiel prompts. Dean’s usually the one who initiates conversation topics between them, but Castiel feels bold and different and a little insane, and he doesn’t want Dean to put the phone down or fall asleep.

Dean takes a deep, shaky breath that sounds like he’s grateful, and starts talking about a Vetala he’d tracked down. Castiel lies down with his head on the pillow, more comfortable than he’s been all night.

Tomorrow, he’ll quit his job at the Gas’n’Sip and start tracking down angels, but Dean doesn’t need to know that yet. He’d just fret even more, and Castiel is tired of being sheltered. He can’t just sit idly by while his brothers and sisters struggle because of him. He can’t allow the Winchesters to take all the weight of the disaster he’s caused without lending a hand. He can’t keep waking up to the pit in his stomach that makes him wonder if today is the day Sam and Dean won’t pick up their phones.

He can’t stay away anymore.

 _And I don’t know how I can do without‒ I just need you now,_ the singer’s voice hums in the back of his head. The notebook has slid to the floor, but he doesn’t bother to pick it up, because he doesn’t need it anymore. He thinks he’s learned the lesson to be found there.

Dean talks, and then Castiel does, until his eyelids start drooping dangerously. He mumbles a drowsy goodnight, even though it pushes a spike of regret through him, but he doesn’t turn off the phone. As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he has the weirdest feeling Dean didn’t hang up either. He’s not entirely sure what either of them is getting from it, other than static and soft breathing, but it lays a blanket of warmth over him. And as foolish as it is, Castiel knows for a fact that tomorrow, when he drives towards Dean, the memory of this phone call will keep him warm for the whole trip. He hopes he can find a car with a CD player.

_…it isn’t silly, love isn’t silly, love isn’t silly at all._

Castiel falls asleep with a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> The songs Castiel listens to are, in order:
> 
>   * "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" - The Smiths
>   * "I Will Always Love You" - Whitney Houston
>   * "Didn't Know Love" - Celine Dion
>   * "Calico Skies" - Paul McCartney
>   * "Alone" - Heart
>   * "Silly Love Songs" - Paul McCartney (referenced in the final paragraph, too)
>   * "God Only Knows" - The Beach Boys
>   * "Need You Now" - Lady Antebellum
> 

> 
> Yes, I chose the cheesiest of the cheese. Yes, it was wholly intentional. You are welcome.


End file.
